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Smith, Cicely Fox
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FIGHTING MEN

Tyrrell &, Co.
Toronto

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

SONGS IN SAIL. Second Thousand

SAILOR TOWN : SEA SONGS AND BALLADS

THE NAVAL CROWN : BALLADS AND. SONGS

FIGHTING MEN

By

C. FOX SMITH

LONDON

ELKIN MATHEWS, CORK STREET
M CM XVI

The author's thanks are due to the Proprietors
of Punch for permission to reprint several poems
which have appeared there ; also to the Editors
of The Spectator, The Sphere, and The Windsor
Magazine for similar permission,

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE RHYME OF THE "INISFAIL" .... 9
THE BALLAD OF THE RESURRECTION PACKET . .15

THE SILENT NAVY 19

"LIGHT CRUISERS (OLD)" 22

TORPEDO BOATS 25

HOME ALONG 28

THE CONVALESCENT 30

THE ROUTE MARCH 33

STEW 35

THE CONVERSATION BOOK 37

MULES 40

THE GRAND TOUR 43

SPEED THE PLOUGH : A COUNTRY SONG . . .46

HOMEWARD 48

FAREWELL TO ANZAC 51

SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND 53

FULFILMENT 56

SPRING IN HAMPSHIRE : 1916 58

FLANDERS' WOODS . 60

THE YEOMAN'S SON 61

HAY HARVEST : 1916 63

FIGHTING MEN

The Rhyme of the " Inisfail "

LIMEHOUSE way, the other day, as I did chance

to be, .
I met with a hairy sailorman was shipmates once

with me,
With his short black pipe between his teeth, and his

tarry dungaree.

I gripped him by the elbow then, he swung upon his
heel

(And oh ! that deep-sea speech to hear, that rope-
hard hand to feel,

It brought once more the younger years, the look-out
and the wheel,

9

THE RHYME OF THE " INISFAIL "

The way of a ship in the great waters where the

flying fishes are,
A creaking block, and the reef-points tapping, and a

high Southern star,
And the smell of nitrates, and new lumber, and paint

and Stockholm tar.)

And "What's the news now up and down?" and

" Where's your ship ? " I cried.
" Greenland Basin or Martin's Wharf?"— He turned

and spat aside —
"She's dockin' far from here this night, on a late,

long tide.

" An' I came home in steam " (he said), " I never
thought to do —

In a sooty, smeary cargo-tank, with a greasy steam-
boat crew ;

An' if you'd know the why of it, I'll tell ye plain an'
true.

" I sailed in June from Carrizal — no call to tell the

tale
Of every bit of a blow we had an' every Cape 'Orn

gale—
In an old-time Clyde-built packet that was called the

' Inisfail.'

10

" One o' them ships with painted ports that Gow of

Glasgow had
In the great old days of the wool-clippers when I was

but a lad —
An' she was one o' the best o' them ; their worst was

never bad.

" All full-rigged ships in them days too, I've heard

old shellbacks say ;
The * Inisfail ' was near the last, an' she had had her

day,
When they cut the half of her sail-plan down, an' her

mizen-yards away."

" Why, well I knew the ' Inisfail ' " (I said) " and

well should know ;

She lay with us in Taltal once, and once in Callao,
The time I sailed in the nitrate trade, a sight o' years

ago.

" A woman with a harp she had by way of figure-
head,

And shamrocks all about her dress like golden stars
were spread,

A bonnier thing was never carved." — " That's her,"
Mike sighed and said.
TI

" Ay well, she's gone, the ' Inisfail ' ; her split and

broken hull,
It doesn't lie by the Seven Stones, the Brisons or the

Gull,
Where many a bumpin' cargo lies, an' many a dead

man's skull.

" But fifty miles from Fastnet Light, in the wide and

open sea,
Where the seagulls meet the homeward bound, through

the rollers plungin' free,
It's there I left the * Inisfail ' in the place where she

left me.

•-- * * «

" A shadow like a shark, I' saw the damned torpedo

glide ;
Like a sunken reef it jarred her ribs — it ripped her

loaded side
As the killer rips the mother whale in the red Behring

tide.

" We did not need the sounding rod to try the depth

below,
By the feel of her beneath our feet we could not help

but know
She'd never fetch a port no more, an' 'twas time for

us to go.

12

THE RHYME OF THE " INISFAIL "

"So we cast the long-boat's lashin's loose, we hove

her over the rail
(An' we thanked our luck as we tumbled in it wasn't

bio win' a gale),
An? we stood off an' on to see the last o' the

£ Inisfail.'

" We had not got the sail oft' her — with all her cloths

agleam
She looked as lovely as a bird, as peaceful as a

dream,
As she lay with her mainyard aback an' liftin' on the

stream.

"We could see the smoke from the galley-fire in

little puffs that blew,
An' the brass work winkin' in the sun, an' the gilt

vane flashin' too,
An' the shark's tail at her bowsprit end, an' a score

o' things we knew.

" We sat and watched for the end of her — we hardly

spoke or stirred ;
' She'll maybe float,' said someone then — he scarce

had shaped the word
When she shivered an' lurched like a melting berg,

an' sank like a wounded bird.
13

THE RHYME OF THE " INISFAIL "

" An' no one '11 ever be cold or hungry, battered or sore,
Or do a job o' work aboard of her any more,
Or lift a stave at the halliards the same as they used
of yore.

" She won't know the wind an' the stars no more, the

sun an' the blue,
Never the kiss of the Trade again — never the sound

o' the crew
An' they chanteyin' up the anchor in one of them

ports she knew.

"No one '11 sleep in the black shadows when the

moon's yellow as corn
Or sing songs in the dog-watches — or wish he was

never born,
Fistin' them big courses of hers, down there off the

pitch o' the Horn.

" Nor they won't sell her or scrap her now, when

workin' days are done ;
She won't rust in the breaker's yard, nor lie and rot

in the sun
Like an old broken sailorman whose yarn is nearly spun.

" For she lies deep, the * Inisfail ' — ay, deep she lies

an' drowned,

Farther'n ever a wave '11 stir, deeper'n a lead can sound,
Fifty mile from Fastnet Light, an' homeward bound."

The Ballad of the Resurrection
Packet

OH, she's in from the deep water, she's safe in port

once more
With shot-'oles in 'er funnel which were not there

before ;
Yes, she's 'ome, dearie, 'ome, an' we've 'alf the sea

inside !
Ought to 'ave sunk, but she couldn't if she tried !

An' it was u'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh she'll bring us

'ome some day,

Rollin' both rails under in the old sweet way !
Freezin' in the foul weather, fryin' in the fine,
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line ! "

If she'd been built for sinkin' she'd 'ave done it long

ago;
She's tried 'er best in every sea an' all the winds that

blow;

15

THE BALLAD OF THE RESURRECTION PACKET

In 'urricanes at Galveston, pamperos off the Plate,
An' icy Cape 'Orn snorters which freeze you while
you wait.

She's been ashore at Vallipo, Algoa Bay likewise,
She's broke 'er screw shaft off Cape Race an' stove

'er bows in ice,
She's lost 'er deck-load overboard an' 'alf 'er bulwarks

too,
An' she's come in with fire aboard, smokin' like a flue.

But it's " 'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh she gets there just the

same,
Reekin', leakin', 'alf a wreck, scarred an' stove an'

lame;

Patch 'er up with putty, lads, tie 'er up with twine,
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line ! "

A bit west the Scillies the sky was stormy red ;

" To-night we'll lift Saint Agnes Light if all goes well,"

we said ;
But we met a slinkin' submarine as dark was coin in'

-„ down,
An' she ripped our rotten plates away an' left us there

to drown.

A bit west the Scillies we thought 'er sure to sink,
There was 'alf a gale blowin', the sky was black as ink ;
16

THE BALLAD OF THE RESURRECTION PACKET

The seas begun to mount an' the wind begun to

thunder,
An' every wave that come, oh we thought 'twould roll

'er under !

But it was "'Ome, dearie, 'ome, an' she gets there

after all —
Steamin' when she can steam, an' when she can't

she'll crawl,

This year, next year, rain or storm or shine,
The resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line ! "

We thought about the bulk-'eads, we wondered if they'd
last,

An' the cook 'e started groanin', an' repentin' of the
past;

But thinkin' an' groanin', oh they wouldn't shift the
water,

So we got the pumps a-workin', same as British sea-
men oughter.

If she'd been a crack liner she'd 'ave gone like a stone,
An' why she didn't sink is a thing as can't be known ;
Our arms was made o' lead, our backs was split with

achin',
But we pumped 'er into port just before the day was

breakin' !

17 c

THE BALLAD OF THE RESURRECTION PACKET

An' it was " 'Ome, dearie, 'ome, oh she'll bring us

'ome some day,
Don't you 'ear the pumps a-clankin' in the old sweet

way?

This year, next year, rain or storm or shine,
She's the resurrection packet of the Salt 'Orse Line ! "

18

The Silent Navy

OH, it is not in the papers and we cannot always know
Where to find the Silent Service whose address is

" G.P.O."
And to-day you can't be certain where to-morrow it

will be
Which yesterday was " somewhere " and the day

before " at sea."

You will find the Silent Navy under every star that

shines ;
It may be hunting submarines, it may be sweeping

mines ;
From Cocos Isle to Dogger Bank, the Falklands to

the Bight,
You will find the Silent Navy when it gets the chance

to fight.

You'll find it in the wintry seas, making heavy

weather
When the wind and the waves are playing larks

together ;

19 c 2

THE SILENT NAVY

You'll find it cruising up and down and coming in to

coal,
Then out again in mist and rain to keep its long

patrol.

You will find the Silent Navy where the ships come

in from sea
With wheat and meat and fighting men and sugar for

our tea,
You'll find it seizing contraband in narrow seas and

wide,
You'll find it near, you'll find it far, and in between

beside.

It may be on the Danube, or among the Belgian

dunes ;
Annexing South Sea Islands or blockading hot

lagoons ;

Escorting armies overseas or starting out in buff
To hand a Turkish railway-line a friendly pinch of

snuff.

It's here and there and everywhere, an unexpected

guest
That is not always welcome, be its manners of the

best;

You'll meet it in the Baltic and again in Riga Bay,
Or landing with its guns in Equatorial Africa.
20

THE SILENT NAVY

It is not in the papers, for the Censor deems it best ;
But we sometimes hear a little, and we sometimes

guess the rest,
And where there's any risk to run, or any death to

dare,
You may seek the Silent Navy . . . and be sure you'll

find it there !

21

'Light Cruisers (Old)"

( Vide Naval Expert's Classification)

WHEN you've marshalled your navies and gloried your

fill

In the latest they show of invention and skill —
The lion in strength and the lizard in speed,
The watchful in waiting, the present in need —
The great Super-Dreadnoughts gigantic and grim,
The thirty-knot cruisers both subtle and slim,
The weight and the range of each wonderful gun —

Remember the cruisers, the out-of-date cruisers,
The creaky old cruisers whose day is not done,
Built some time before Nineteen Hundred and One !

You may look to the South, you may seek in the North,
You may search from the Falklands as far as the

Forth,

22

"LIGHT CRUISERS (OLD)"

From Pole unto Pole all the oceans between,
Patrolling, protecting, unwearied, unseen,
By night or by noonday the Navy is there,
And the out-of-date cruisers are doing their share !
Yes, anywhere, everywhere under the sun,

You will find an old cruiser, an off-the-map cruiser,
An out-of-date cruiser whose work's never done,
Built some time before Nineteen Hundred and One !

It may be you'll meet with her lending a hand
In clearing a way for the soldiers to land ;
Escorting an army, and feeding it too,
Or sinking a raider (and saving her crew) ;
Blockading by sea or attacking by dry land,
Bombarding a coast or annexing an island,
Where there's death to be daring or risk to be run

You may look for the cruiser, the out-of-date cruiser,

The creaky old cruiser that harries the Hun,

Built some time before Nineteen Hundred and One.

In wild nights of winter when warmly you sleep,
She is plugging her way through the dark and the deep,
With death in the billows which endless do roll,
And the wind blowing cold with the kiss of the Pole ;
23

"LIGHT CRUISERS (OLD)"

While seas slopping over both frequent and green
Call forth on occasion expressions of spleen,
Of all the old kettles awarding the Bun

To the out-of-date cruiser — the obsolete cruiser—
The creaky old cruiser whose work's never done,
Built some time before Nineteen Hundred and One !

And when the Day breaks for whose smoke-trail afar
We scan the grey waters by sunlight and star,
The day of great glory — the splendour, the gloom,
The lightning, the thunder, the judgment, the doom,
The breaking of navies, the shaking of kings,
When the Angel of Battle makes night with his wings,
Oh somewhere, be sure, in the thick o' the fun

You will find an old cruiser, a gallant old cruiser,
A creaky old cruiser whose day is not done,

Built some time before Nineteen Hundred and One I

24

Torpedo Boats

THERE be poets in plenty have sung in the praise
Of the famous old names out of Old Navy days,
Of " Victory," " Temeraire," " Ajax," " Orion,"
" Colossus," " Calliope," " Tiger" and " Lion " ;
But it's hard, you'll acknowledge, to rhyme you the

fame

Of a craft that has never so much as a name,
But simply appears on the tale of the sea
As—" H.M. Torpedo Boat (One, Two, or Three) ! "

Likewise our destroyers have names to suggest
Their fierceness, their fleetness, their daring, their

zest,

The Insects, the Rivers, the Tribes and what not —
Not to mention selections from Shakespeare and

Scott ;

25

TORPEDO BOATS

But though they should ransack the poets all through,
And exhaust every creature that's known at the Zoo,
Not a name would there be in the whole bag o' tricks
To spare for Torpedo Boat Four, Five or Six !

But it matters not greatly when work's to be done
If they call you " Ark Royal " or Nought-Forty-One ;
If you sound like a flagship of ancient renown,
Or more like the knapsack once worn by John Brown.
And whether your portion be number or name,
There are some things, you'll find, which are always

the same,

And sisters in Duty, at risk of the sea,
Are Dreadnought, destroyer, and humble T.B.

There be sea-fogs to blind her and tempests to batter,
There be shoals to decoy her and lee shores to

shatter,
There be seas which engulf her and billows which

roll,

With spray dashing high as a Dreadnought's control ;
While to keep her from dulness are mines not a

few

(And she knows just a bit about submarines too !),
Such lesser distractions as fall to the lot
Of H.M. Torpedo Boat — please yourself what !
26

TORPEDO BOATS

And though scant be her portion on History's page,
Recounting great battles where fleets did engage,
Though the end of her day be to perish alone,
Her deeds unrecorded, her glory unknown ;
Come lightning or tempest, come gale or come sleet,
She must stick at her job on the fringe of the Fleet,
Patrolling our coast round from Harwich to Humber,
H.M. Torpedo Boat — known by a number !

27

Home Along

WHEN days are gettin' short an' cold, an' the long

nights begin,
With waves like mountains rollin' high, an' the

norther blowin' thin,
Oh, then my thoughts do stretch their wings an' fly

across the sea,
Home along, home along, to the place where I would

be!

Home along, home along, there's deep an' leafy

lanes,
Where kind an' warm's the summer sun an' soft the

autumn rains ;
An' many a ship to harbour comes, an' sailor home

from sea,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie !

I wonder how they're farm' now, the young folks an'

the old,
An' if they think at all o' me, when winter nights are

cold ;

28

HOME ALONG

An' what's the tale on Market Strand, the news on

Fish Strand Quay,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie !

Home along, home along, 'tis maybe not the same
Wi' no one left but old men there, the faint 'earts an'

the lame ;
Who'll pull my oar to lifeboat now, when the blue

lights burn at sea,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie ?

I wish that 'Igh Kiel fleet would come, the waitin's

cruel slow,
An' when I get my bit o' leave, oh, I know where I

will go,
To sit me down beside the fire, or stroll beside the

quay,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie.

Home along, home along, an' I'd like to see it now,
The ruddy furrow white wi' gulls behind my father's

plough —
A friend to greet, an' a girl to meet, an' a score o'

folks to see,
Home along, home along, in the West Countrie !

29

The Convalescent

WE'VE billards, bowls an' tennis courts, we've teas

an' motor-rides ;
We've concerts nearly every night, an' 'eaps o' things

besides ;
We've all the best of everything as much as we can

eat —
But my 'eart — my 'cart's at 'ome in 'Enry Street.

I'm askin' Sister every day when I'll be fit to go ;

" We must 'ave used you bad " (she says) " you want

to leave us so " ;
I says, " I beg your pardon, Nurse, the place is 'ard

to beat,
But my 'eart — my 'eart's at 'ome in 'Enry Street."

The sheffoneer we saved to buy, the clock upon the

wall,

The pictures an' the almanac, the china dogs an' all,
30

THE CONVALESCENT

I've thought about it many a time, my little 'ome

complete,
When in Flanders, far away from 'Enry Street.

It's 'elped me through the toughest times — an' some

was middlin' tough —
The 'ardest march was not so 'ard, the roughest not

so rough ;
It's 'elped me keep my pecker up in victory an'

defeat,
Just to think about my 'ome in 'Enry Street.

There's several things I'd like to 'ave which 'ere I

never see,

I'd like some chipped potatoes an' a kipper to my tea ;
But most of all I'd like to feel the stones beneath my

feet
Of the road that takes me 'ome to 'Enry Street.

They'll 'ave a little flag 'ung out— they'll 'ave the

parlour gay
With crinkled paper all about, the same as Christmas

Day,
An' out of all the neighbours' doors the 'eads '11 pop

to greet
Me cotnin' wounded 'ome to 'Enry Street.

THE CONVALESCENT

My missis— well, she'll cry a bit, an' laugh a bit

between ;
My kids '11 climb upon my knees— there's one I've

never seen ;
An' of all the days which I 'ave known there won't be

one so sweet
As the one when I go 'ome to 'Enry Street.

32

The Route March

WE'VE got our foreign service boots — we've 'ad 'em

'alfaday;
If it wasn't for the Adjutant I'd sling the brutes

away ;
If I could 'ave my old ones back I'd give a fortnight's

pay
An' chuck 'em in the pair I got this mornin' !

We've marched a 'undred miles to-day — we've 'undreds

more to go,
An' if you don't believe me, why, I'll tell you 'ow I

know,
I've measured out the distance by the blister on my

toe,
For I got my foreign service boots this mornin'.

We've got our foreign service boots — I wish that I

was dead ;
I wish I'd got the Colonel's 'orse an' 'im my feet

instead ;

33 D

THE ROUTE MARCH

I wish I was a nacrobat, I'd walk upon my 'ead,
For I got my foreign service boots this mornin'.

We're 'oppin' an' we're 'obblin' to a cock-eyed rag-
time tune,

Not a soul as isn't limpin' in the bloomin' 'ole
balloon ;

But buck you up, my com-e-rades, we're off to

Flanders soon,
For we got our foreign service boots this mornin' !

34

Stew

IF you 'ave lost your 'aversack, your kit-bag or your

pipe,
Your 'ousewife, soap or oily rag with which you clean

your 'ipe,
Your belt or second pair o' socks, your lanyard or

pull-through,
Oh, do not be dispirited, you'll get 'em in the stew !

If from the transport lines you miss a face you used

to know,

With stick-up ears and yellow teeth all in a smilin' row,
'E is not gone for evermore, though seemin' lost to view,
The late lamented Army mule, you'll meet 'im in the

stew.

We get it 'ot, we get it cold, we get it in between,
We get it thick, we get it thin, we get it fat an' lean ;
We get it for our day-joo-nay, our tea and luncheon too,
An' when the long day's march is done we top it up
with stew.

35 D 2

STEW

As we go through the countryside, route marchin' in

the sun,
With bandy-rolls an' clobber on, which weighs about

a ton,
Oh, this is what the people shout as we go marchin'

through,
" 'Ere come the Loyal Whatdyecalls — I'm sure I

smelt the stew !"

When we are bound for foreign shores, an' 'arf across

the water
The transport starts a-rollin' like a transport didn't

oughter,
To cheer our faintin' spirits up when we are feelin'

blue,
They'll get the dixies goin' an' they'll serve us out

some stew.

* * * *

So when the wicked war is done an' peace is 'ere

again,
We won't forget the chaps as toiled to please our

inner men,
We'll call to mind the favourite dish we found on our

menu,
An' think of our Battalion cooks — an' drink their

'ealths in— Stew !

36

The Conversation Book

I 'AYE a conversation book, I brought it out from

'ome;
It tells the French for knife an' fork, an' likewise

brush an' comb ;
It learns you 'ow to ast the time, the names of all the

stars,
An' 'ow to order hoysters, an' 'ow to buy cigars.

But there ain't no shops to shop in, there ain't no

grand hotels,
When you spend your days in dug-outs, doin' 'olesale

trade in shells ;
It's nice to know the proper talk for theatres an'

such,
But when it comes to talkin', why, it doesn't 'elp you

much !

37

THE CONVERSATION BOOK

There's all them friendly kind o' things you'd naturally

say
When you meet a feller casual- like an' pass the time

o' day —
Them little things as breaks the ice an' kind o' clears

the air,
Which, when you turn the phrase-book up, why, them

things isn't there.

I met a chap the other day a-roosting in a trench,

'E didn't know a word of ours nor me a word o'
French ;

An' 'ow it was we managed, well, I cannot under-
stand,

But I never used the phrase-book, though I 'ad it in
my 'and.

I winked at 'im to start with ; 'e grinned from ear to

ear;

An' 'e says " Tipperary " an' I says " Sooveneer " ;
'E 'ad my only Woodbine, I 'ad 'is thin cigar,
Which set the ball a-rollin', an' so — well, there you

are !

I showed 'im next my wife an' kids — 'e up an' showed

me 'is,
Them little funny Frenchy kids with 'air all in a

frizz ;

38

THE CONVERSATION BOOK

"Annette," 'e says, "Louise," 'e says, an' 'is tears

begun to fall ;
We was comrades when we parted, but we'd 'ardly

spoke at all.

'E'd 'ave kissed me if I'd let 'im, we 'ad never met

before,
An' I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the

way of war ;
An', though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just

the same
If 'e'll ever see them kids of 'is— I never ast 'is

name !

39

Mules

I NEVER would 'ave done it if I'd known what it

would be ;
I thought it meant promotion an' some extra pay for

me,
I thought I'd miss a drill or two with packs an'

trenchin' tools,
So I said I'd 'andled 'orses — an' they set me 'andlin'

mules.

An' 'orses they are 'orses — but a mule 'e is a

mule
(Bit o' devil, bit o' monkey, bit o' bloomin' boundin'

fool !).

Oh, I'm usin' all the adjectives I didn't learn at school
On the prancin', glancin', rag-time dancin'

Army Transport Mule !
40

MULES

If I'd been Father Noah when the cargo walked

aboard
I'd 'ave let the bears an' tigers in an' never spoke

a word ;
But I'd 'ave shoved a placard out to say the 'ouse

was full,
An' shut the Ark up suddent when I saw the Army

mule.

They buck you off when ridden, they squish your leg

when led ;
They're mostly sittin' on their tails or standin' on

their 'ead ;
They reach their yellow grinders out an' gently chew

your ear,
An' their necks is indiarubber for attackin* in the

rear !

They're as mincin' when they're 'appy as a ladies'

ridin' school,
But when the fancy takes 'em, they're like nothin* but

a mule,
With the off-wheels in the gutter an' the near wheels

in the air,
An' a leg acrost the traces, an' the driver Lord knows

where !

MULES

They're 'orrid in the stable, they're worse upon the

road,

They'll bolt with any rider, they'll jib with any load ;
But soon we're bound beyond the seas, an' when we

cross the foam
I don't care where we go to, if we leave the mules

at 'ome !

For 'orses they are 'orses, but a mule 'e is a mule
(Bit o' monkey, bit o' devil, bit o' bloomin' boundin'

fool !)
Oh, I'm usin' 'eaps of adjectives I never learned at

school
On the rampin', rawboned, cast-steel-jawboned

Army Transport Mule !

The Grand Tour

I ALWAYS wished to see the world, I 'ad no chanst

before,
Nor I don't suppose I should 'ave if there 'adn't been

no war ;
I used to read the tourist books, the shippin' news

also,
An' I 'ad the chanst o' goin', so I couldn't 'elp but go.

We 'ad a spell in Egypt first, before we moved

along
Acrost the way to Suvla, where we got it 'ot an'

strong ;
We 'ad no drink when we was dry, no rest when we

was tired,
But I've seen the Perramids an' Spink, which I 'ad

oft desired.

43

THE GRAND TOUR

>

I've what '11 last me all my life, to talk about an

think,
I've sampled various things to eat an' various more

to drink ;
I've strolled among them dark bazaars, which makes

the pay to fly
(An' I 'ad my fortune told as well, but that was all

my eye !)

I've seen them little islands too-— I couldn't say their

names —
An' towns as white as washin'-day, an' mountains

spoutin' flames ;
I've watched the sun come lonely up on miles an'

miles of sea,
Why, folks 'ave paid a 'undred pound an' seen no

more than me !

The sky is some'ow bluer there — in fact, I never

knew

As any sun could be so 'ot or any sky so blue ;
There's dates an' figs an' suchlike things all 'angin'

on the trees,
An' black folks walkin' up an' down as natural as you

please.

44

THE GRAND TOUR

I always wished to see the world, I'm fond o' life an'

change.
But Abdul got me in the leg ; an' this is passin'

strange,
That when you see old England's shore, all wrapped

in mist an' rain,
Why, it's worth the bloomin' bundle to be comin' 'ome

again !

45

Speed the Plough: A Country
Song

As I was a-walking on Chilbolton Down,

I saw an old farmer there driving to town,

A-jogging to market behind his old grey,

So I jumped up behind him and thus he did say :

" My boy he be fightin', a fine strappin' lad,
I gave he to England, the one boy I had ;
My boy he be fightin' out over the foam,
An' here be I frettin' an' mopin' at home.

" An' if there be times when 'tis just about hard
Without his strong arm in the field an' the yard,
Why, I plucks up my heart then an' flicks the old

grey,

An' this is the tune that her heels seem to say :
46

SPEED THE PLOUGH : A COUNTRY SONG

" ' Oh the hoof an' the horn, the roots an' the corn,
The flock in the fold an' the pigs in the pen,
Rye-grass an' clover, an' barns brimmin' over,
They feed the King's horses an' feed the King's men.'

" Then I looks at my furrows to see the corn spring,
Like little green sword-blades all drawn for the King,
An' 'tis ' Get up, old Bess, there be plenty to do,
For old chaps like me an' old horses like you.

" ' My boy be in Flanders, he's young an' he's bold,
But they will not have we, lass, for we be too old ;
So step it out cheerful, an' kip up your heart,
For you an' me, Bess, we be doin' our part —

" { Wi' the shocks an' the sheaves, the lambs an' the

beeves,

The ducks an' the geese an' the good speckled hen,
Rye-grass an' clover, an' barns brimmin' over,
To feed the King's horses an' feed the King's men ! ' '

47

Homeward

BEHIND a trench in Flanders, the sun was dropping
low,

With tramp and creak and jingle I heard the gun-
teams go ;

And something seemed to 'mind me, a-dreaming as I
lay,

Of my own old Hampshire village at the quiet end of
day.

Brown thatch and gardens blooming with lily and

with rose,
And the cool shining river so pleasant where he

flows,
Wide fields of oats and barley, and elder flower like

foam,
And the sky gold with sunset, and the horses going

home !

48

HOMEWARD

(Home, lad, home, all among the corn and clover !
Home, lad, home, when the time for work is over !
Oh, there's rest for horse and man when the longest

day is done,
And they go home together at setting of the sun !)

Old Captain, Prince and Blossom, I see them all so

plain,

With tasselled ear-caps nodding along the leafy lane,
There's a bird somewhere calling, and the swallows

flying low,
And the lads sitting sideways, and singing as they

go-

Well, gone is many a lad now, and many a horse

gone too,

Of all the lads and horses in those old fields I knew ;
There's Dick that died at Cuinchy, and Prince beside

the guns
On the red road of glory, a mile or two from Mons !

Dead lads and shadowy horses — I see them just the

same,
I see them and I know them, and name them each

by name,

49 E

HOMEWARD

Going down to shining waters when all the West's

aglow,
And the lads sitting sideways and singing as they

go-

(Home, lad, home . . . with the sunlight on their

faces !

Home, lad, home ... to the quiet happy places !
There's rest for horse and man when the hardest

fight is done,
And they go home together at setting of the sun !)

5°

Farewell to Anzac

OH, hump your swag and leave, lads, the ships are in

the bay ;
We've got our marching orders now, it's time to come

away ;
And a long good-bye to Anzac beach where blood

has flowed in vain,
For we're leaving it, leaving it — game to fight again !

But some there are will never quit that bleak and

bloody shore,
And some that marched and fought with us will fight

and march no more ;
Their blood has bought till judgment day the slopes

they stormed so well,
And we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where

they fell !

(Leaving them, leaving them, the bravest and the

best;
Leaving them, leaving them, and maybe glad to rest !

51 E 2

FAREWELL TO ANZAC

We've done our best with yesterday, to-morrow's still

our own —
But we're leaving them, leaving them, sleeping all

alone !)

Ay, they are gone beyond it all, the praising and the

blame,
And many a man may win renown, but none more

fair a fame ;
They showed the world Australia's lads knew well the

way to die,
And we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where

they lie !

(Leaving them, leaving them, sleeping where they

died;
Leaving them, leaving them, in their glory and their

pride-
Round them sea and barren land, over them the sky,
Oh, we're leaving them, leaving them, quiet where

they lie !)

Saint George of England

SAINT GEORGE he was a fighting man, as all the tales

do tell ;
He fought a battle long ago, and fought it wondrous

well.

With his helmet, and his hauberk, and his good cross-
hiked sword,
Oh, he rode a-slaying dragons to the glory of the

Lord.
And when his time on earth was done, he found he

could not rest
Where the year is always summer in the Islands of

the Blest •
So back he came to earth again, to see what he could

do,
And they cradled him in England —

In England, April England —
Oh, they cradled him in England where the golden

willows blew !

53

SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND

Saint George he was a fighting man, and loved a

fighting breed.
And whenever England wants him now, he's ready

at her need,
From Crecy field to Neuve Chapelle he's there with

hand and sword,
And he sailed with Drake from Devon to the glory

of the Lord.
His arm is strong to smite the wrong and break the

tyrant's pride,
He was there when Nelson triumphed, he was there

when Gordon died ;
He sees his red-cross ensign float on all the winds

that blow,
But ah ! his heart's in England—

In England, April England—
Oh, his heart it turns to England where the golden

willows grow.

Saint George he was a fighting man, he's here and
fighting still

While any wrong is yet to right or Dragon yet to kill,

And faith ! he's finding work this day to suit his war-
worn sword,

For he's strafing Huns in Flanders to the glory of
the Lord.

54

SAINT GEORGE OF ENGLAND

Saint George he is a fighting man, but when the

fighting's past,
And dead among the trampled fields the fiercest and

the last
Of all the Dragons earth has known beneath his feet

lies low,
Oh, his heart will turn to England —

To England, April England —
He'll come home to rest in England where the golden

willows blow !

55

Fulfilment

THE last grim fight was over, the last red trench was

won

About the taken and re-taken hill,
And far beyond the dead-strewn slopes the battle's

noise rolled on,
Far on ... and left the soldier lying still.

He knew no more the din, the reek, the darkness and

the slime,

The strangling poison-cloud that hid the sky ;
He heard no more the devil's forge beat out its

fearful chime,
And shells like birds of slaughter screaming by.

He walked, a whole and care-free boy, in fields he

loved of old —

He breathed again the jolly breeze of morn. . . .
He heard the pigeons clap their wings above the old

grey fold
In the country far away where he was born.

56

FULFILMENT

He saw the blossom lie like foam on every hedge

and tree,
And the sunlight breaking golden through the

cloud ;
He heard a hundred streams run down rejoicing to

the sea,
And all the birds of Spring-time singing loud.

He saw, in bright battalions ranged, the embattled

hosts of God,

Stand rank on rank high up the rifted skies. . . ,
And souls set free that sprang and soared above the

blood-stained sod,
His comrades with the splendour in their eyes.

57

Spring in Hampshire: 1916

BLACKTHORN winter is over and done

(Pale gold sunsets and brimming rivers,

And the robin's note where the bare copse shivers) ;

And all on a sudden is Spring begun. . . .

Swallow and leaf and the south wind's breath,

And mating creatures of fur and feather

Praising alike in the golden weather

Him in whose hand are living and dying,

The maker and giver of life and death.

Blackthorn winter is over and done. . . .

And May comes in with the cuckoo's crying,

Warmth in the wind and strength in the sun,

And blossom in spate on the hawthorn brake.

Kingcups' gold in the wet green places,

And daisies lifting their shining faces

Like to the sands or the stars in number,

Or the dead that have died for this sweet land's sake.

58

SPRING IN HAMPSHIRE : 1916

Blackthorn winter is over and done. . . .

And you, dear dead, to whose splendid slumber

Summers and winters and springs are one,

Who shall repay you, who shall restore you

Your lost sweet springs in the land that bore you ?

Beyond all parting, beyond all pain,

Shall God not give you your Spring again ?

59

Flanders' Woods

ENGLAND'S woods are green to-day;

Every day and all day long
In among the trees do stray

The birds' song and the winds' song.

Last year's leaves beneath our feet
Light do sigh and soft do stir,

As if they kept remembrance sweet
Of young dead lovers walking there. . . .

In Flanders' woods on hurrying wings

Every day and all day long
The seeking bullet flies and sings

Thin and shrill its bridal song.

All the summer leaves are brown,
And all the boughs of summer bare ;

And many a gallant lad lies down
With glory for his sweetheart there.

60

The Yeoman's Son

IT fell about the edge of dark,

Between the sun and moon,
The yeoman's son came home again

With the mire upon his shoon —

With the red clay upon his shoon
From a furrowed field afar —

The sour and bitter clod that breaks
Beneath the share of war.

" Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother,
And hold me to your breast ;

For the long day's work is over and done,
And I go glad to rest.

" And oh, good-bye, my father's house,

Good-bye to field and hill,
For I'll lie down in the red furrow

To sleep, and sleep my fill.
61

THE YEOMAN'S SON

" I shall not rouse at the cock-crow,

I shall not wake with the sun ;
I shall sleep the sleep of a strong man tired

When his day's work is done.

" Ay, deep I'll sleep in the red furrow,
Out over the Channel foam. . . .

And another hand than mine, mother,
Must lead the harvest home ! "

62

Hay Harvest: 1916

I SEE the mowers swinging

Their scythes in the English hay. . . .
What swathes of dead are lying

In fields of France this day !

The mowers mow in the sunshine,
Their scythes flash all together — •

Even as flash the bayonets

Out there in the golden weather.

The mowers mow in the sunshine,
The sweat stands on each brow. . . .

It is blood, not sweat, our bravest
Spend in war's windrows now.

I see the mowers swinging

Their scythes in the grass and flowers.
Ah God ! what price has bought it,

This English peace of ours !

LONDON :

FUIN'TED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIVITED
DVKE STREET, STA1IFOBO STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET, W.

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

Smith, Cicely Fox
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